Fuck you, guitar man. Fuck you for looking beautiful as you got on stage with your guitar. Sure, you were dressed like a bartender and before you got on stage I thought you worked here, but now it’s all different. Fuck you for singing and playing the guitar so well. I don’t even know if you’re playing it well or if your general attractiveness is just translating through everything, but fuck you anyway.
Fuck you for looking like a more grown-up version of my ex, who I hope has been attacked by bears and after the bears attacked him they left him for vultures and the vultures did what they could and then a shark joined in, it actually got up out of the ocean and hobbled over, and then the bears came back because they decided they weren’t done (you know how bears are). Fuck you for looking like him and doing a really great cover of a great classic rock song mixed with another great classic new wave song. Bitch.
Fuck you for that glimpse of wedding ring that I didn’t catch until your very last song. Fuck you for being married. Fuck everyone for being married.
Fuck everyone who has ever let me down. You will never make your way back. You’re on my list. There is no getting off of this list. All of the pizza parties in the world will never get you off of this list. Oh, you don’t care? You don’t care that you’re on this list, guitar man? Too bad. Because I am an amazing friend. Once you’re my friend I will remain loyal to you with a ferociousness that is both admirable and a little scary. I am generally a good person. I am kind, generous with money, will show up to your Facebook events, and I fuck like a champion. So fuck you, guitar man. Fuck all of the guitar men of the world. And fuck you, Prince. I don’t even have a reason, but fuck you.